


The Madman in the Attic

by Born_with_wings



Category: Dorian Gray - All Media Types, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Born_with_wings/pseuds/Born_with_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian killed Basil Hallward in the attic that night, only, he didn't use a knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take it away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it, and turned round. Hallward stirred in the chair as if he was going to rise._ (The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde)

He rushed at him and the man turned abruptly, his eyes widening in shock and horror, his body jerking convulsively as if he could evade the threat. Dorian froze, the knife still held aloft and shining dully in the orange glow of the lamp. Something in the expression of the man stayed his hand and he watched in fascination as the painter's face transformed in fear. He could just see the thudding of his pulse beneath the curve of Basil's jaw, keeping time with the pounding of blood in Dorian's own ears. At once the awful passion of loathing left him and the uncomfortable heat of shame stole in to take its place. A cry of horror escaped his lips and, flinging the knife aside, he fell gracefully to his knees. Burying his face in his hands he began at once to weep. Hallward sat frozen, trembling with wild emotion as the lad crept, still sobbing, towards him. Dorian's hands were pale, shining ghost-like in the dull glow of the dimming lamp as they stretched blindly outwards. Basil did not move, nor make a sound to guide him, but Dorian's searching hands found his friend and with great effort, he draped his shuddering body across his knees and buried his face in his lap. Basil stiffened and a blush stole across his cheeks and neck, burning his skin with hectic spots of red. A swell of emotion rose within him and, hesitantly, he reached out to his friend, laying a tremulous hand on the quaking shoulder.

"Forgive me," Dorian murmured into the fabric of his trousers, barely audible. "Forgive me Basil." The lad raised his head, blinking at him with tear-dimmed eyes. In the dull light his rebellious curls shone like golden threads, the red of those sensuous lips seemed richer than Basil had ever seen and the tears shining in those fantastic eyes made the striking blue all the lovelier.

"Of course," Basil faltered, offering a weak smile. Dorian shuddered against him and Hallward's hands tightened on his shoulders with the grip of a drowning man. Out of the corner of his eye Basil caught sight of the awful portrait again and his chest tightened painfully. "Dorian," he said fearfully, "surely this is some mistake, a wild nightmare?" He stroked the boy's head with trembling hands, fingers tangling in the golden curls. "We will wake up soon," he murmured, in a low voice. The words sounded false on his lips, even to his own ears.

Dorian Gray looked up. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Come Basil," he said quietly, "surely even you do not believe that." He looked away and the orange glow of the lamp caught the sensuous curve of his neck. Basil could not believe that this boy and the portrait were one - Dorian could not have committed the sins he saw so clearly in every stroke of paint on that god-forsaken canvas.

"Yes," he shook his head, "I do believe it, even if you do not." His hands slid down the boy's shoulders and gripped his slender hands. "I refuse to believe that you could -"

Dorian turned on him wildly, a flash of madness gleaming in his eyes. Basil drew back swiftly, fear gripping his chest as Dorian tore his hands from his grasp and stood above him. In the dim light his shadowed figure loomed over the artist like a curse. His scarlet lips twisted into an ugly grimace. Madness rose within him like a wild dog. "And what should you know Basil?" he spat, hands curling into fists at his side. "What should you presume to know about me?"

Hallward shrank away from Dorian's anger. He cringed as the boy reached for him, trembled at the cruel look on his face. His eyes glittered like marbles, hard and cold, so unlike Dorian, and Basil's breath caught in his throat. "Dorian, please!" he cried, thrusting his arm out to catch the boy. Dorian snarled. He knocked the artist's arm aside and his slender fingers closed around Basil's wrist. 

"You claim to know my soul. Well? There it is Basil, is it how you pictured it?" He flung his arm out wildly, gesticulating at the portrait. His golden hair hung dishevelled in his eyes, his collar gaped open and a scarlet flush stained his chest and neck, crawling over his cheeks. He clutched at Basil's wrist. "Look at it Basil," he said, bitterly, "does it frighten you?" 

Basil tried to look away but Dorian thrust his face before him. The painter had never seen him look so cruel; for a wild, terrifying moment, he resembled the portrait so closely that Basil could not bear to look at him. "Dorian please," he whispered, his throat tight around the words. "Please stop this. You are acting quite mad!" Dorian laughed. The sound was mad and cruel and Basil shuddered beneath him. 

"You think that I am mad Basil?" he asked, his voice low and throaty. Suddenly Dorian thrust Basil backwards, crushing the man back against the table. A frightened cry fell from Hallward's lips and he twisted desperately in his young friend's grip. One of the boy's slender hands gripped the painter's thigh, the other clutching painfully at his chin. His face hovered close to Basil's, his crimson lips trembling inches from the artist's mouth. Their breath's mingled in the stale air. Basil breathed in Dorian's perfume and felt dizzy. 

"Dorian," he gasped breathlessly, "stop this now. What you are doing is a sin!" Dorian's lip quirked. His mouth trembled inches from Basil's face. His tongue flickered at the corner of his mouth, wetting his crimson lips. His marble eyes softened and he ran a slender finger delicately down the curve of Hallward's neck. Basil's breath hitched and he turned his face away, ashamed.

"A sin?" His voice was low, sensual. Basil shivered helplessly. "Look at that portrait. Can you see the sins in every stroke? It is too late for me my friend." His gaze sharpened suddenly and Basil squirmed uncomfortably beneath his stare. "Or is it you Basil?" Dorian laughed long and loud. Basil fancied he could hear the madness in it. "Are you trying to save your soul Hallward? It is too late for you too, the sins on that portrait - every one is a weight doubled on your soul. It is you who painted the portrait is it not?" The painter shuddered, his eyes fixing blindly on the portrait. Dorian's crimson lips shivered against the curve of Hallward's neck and he pressed his mouth to the pulse pounding beneath the angle of Basil's jaw - hot and wet. Basil jerked, turned wildly to his friend. A stifled groan escaped him and Dorian chuckled again, his breath hot against Basil's skin.

At last Basil spoke. "Stop this," he said again in a tremulous voice. His arm moved convulsively against the boy, pushing him away, but Dorian clung to his shoulders and refused to be dislodged. His grip on Basil was hard and cruel, his eyes alight with some wicked fancy. Basil wanted no part of it. Yet beneath the exotic, alien exterior Hallward could see the boy he had fallen for. He could see him in the way he tossed his head as he spoke, in the tears that still clung to his crimson cheeks. This cruel madman was not Dorian, but the boy was still in there, somewhere. The painter shook himself suddenly, crushing the sinful desire that swelled within him like a wave. "Dorian -"

"We are going to hell anyway Basil," the boy said suddenly, seriously, "we may as well give in to our desires." He leaned into Hallward again, watching him carefully with those startling blue eyes. Basil shifted, uncomfortable. Under his scrutiny the painter felt as if his soul was being laid bare, as if Dorian could see straight through him to the wild lust that raged in his stomach. Only God should be able to see me like this, Basil thought distractedly, captivated by Dorian's gaze. Was it such a sin after all? He had desired the boy for so long, and hadn't he nurtured him, fulfilled him? Didn't he deserve this modicum of comfort? Not like this, some rational part of his brain whispered, barely audible, in the back of his head. But Basil could not hear it over Dorian's panting breaths.

"Dorian," he said again, only this time it sounded like surrender. Dorian grinned, his lips curling devilishly and Basil shut his eyes to block out the sight. He felt cruel hands swiftly unbuttoning his shirt and Dorian's lips were once again on his neck, whispering obscenities into his skin. Basil turned his head and their lips met, soft and warm and wet, and Basil let Dorian push him to the floor. Slowly, Basil shut his eyes and prayed for redemption as that awful painting stared at them from its rotten cage and he gave his body over to pleasure and sin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this in my computer the other day and wasn't sure why I never posted it. I obviously struggled with how to end it and if you don't like it feel free to pretend this chapter doesn't exist. :)

The attic was filled with the heavy scent of sweat and sex. The lamp light had faded to a dull orange glow and shadows were beginning to creep steadily from the corners, making fantastic shapes across the floor. The whole thing was decidedly oppressive. Basil, the weight of Dorian Gray bearing relentlessly down upon him, felt as though he might suffocate.

“Dorian,” the painter gasped helplessly. “Dorian please.” The boy turned his head, nuzzled his face into the crook of Basil’s neck and hummed against the soft skin there. The lad’s golden curls tickled the older man’s cheek, and soft, red lips trembled against his throbbing pulse.

“What is it Basil?” Dorian asked without pausing his ministrations.

Basil could not speak. The fire of pleasure was turning to sluggish ice in his veins, freezing his throat and tongue so that he could not draw breath. The boy above him, who mere moments before had ignited such passion in Basil, now seemed distorted and alien, an ugly, terrible thing which the painter could not reconcile with Dorian Gray. The painting, which he had almost forgotten, seemed to grin at them from its rotten cage.

“Stop Dorian,” Hallward managed breathlessly, “stop this now.” And he struggled wildly against him. For a moment Dorian clung to Basil, his pale hands claws upon the painter’s flesh, and would not be dislodged. 

“Selfish,” the boy murmured against the curve of Basil’s neck, and long, slender fingers trailed across the painter’s stomach, through the sticky evidence of his pleasure. Basil’s muscles tightened mutinously against the sensation. “Never mind,” said Dorian, coldly, and at once his weight was gone. Basil, feeling both bereft and relieved, clambered to his feet a moment later.

“Dorian,” Hallward said into the sudden silence. There was an odd quality to his voice, as though he were speaking from very far away. His hands fumbled woodenly at the fastening of his trousers. “What happened-” he stopped, seemingly struggling against the words. “We should not have-”

“No,” Dorian said. “Perhaps we should not.”

The boy stood a little way away, beneath that dreadful portrait, head tilted back as he stared impassively at the depiction of his sin. Cloaked in shadow as he was, the painter had the curious sensation that the boy and the portrait had traded places. Feeling a tremor of fear Basil grasped one of the dying lamps and drew it into the air so that the orange light fell across Dorian’s face. The boy was still as young and beautiful as when Basil had met him. And yet the painter did not feel relieved.

“Look Basil,” Dorian’s voice was so soft that Basil almost didn’t hear him. “Look at what you created.” 

Basil found that he had no words. A curious sensation was creeping through him, a cold sense of dread. Suddenly he was afraid that if he looked at the portrait he would see, not the evidence of Dorian’s sin, but his own. Or maybe he did not need the portrait to show him that, maybe the evidence was painted clearly across his own face. The painter shuddered. 

“Dorian.”

“Do not go.” Hallward startled, shocked by the boy’s sudden proximity. He had not heard Dorian crossing the attic towards him but suddenly he was pressed against the painter. Hot breath puffed against Basil’s cheek and thin fingers trembled against his chest. Basil realised with a sick swoop of fear that he could feel Dorian’s hardness against his hip.

“Don't go to Paris.” The words were pressed against Basil’s cheek. “Stay with me.” These pressed against his lips. Hallward swallowed the taste of Dorian’s mouth and could only moan in reply. A hand tangled in the painter’s hair, another tightened vice-like around his wrist. Dorian drew his hand against the hardness at Basil’s hip and the painter’s fingers tightened automatically against him. Dorian had not redone his britches and Basil’s hand touched flesh. “We hadn’t finished.” Dorian breathed.

Basil felt the heady temptation of sin tingle low in his stomach and then as suddenly as it came it was gone and a sober rush of shame stole in to take its place.

“No!” Basil gasped and staggered away from Dorian, wrenching his arm from the boy’s gasp. “We can’t do this.”

“We already have.”

Wasn’t it true? Basil Hallward had sinned after all. Perhaps he was no better than Dorian. Basil looked at the boy, at the innocent charm in his face, the bright glow of youth that could not be hidden despite the darkness of the room. And then his eyes slid past Dorian, to the hideous painting and revulsion coursed through him once more. No, he was not so far gone as that.

“Dorian I cannot do this. I can see now that these terrible stories, the rumours, there is more truth in them than I had believed, and worse. Perhaps it is too late for you, and perhaps for me too, but Dorian, if there is any good left in you you will pray and maybe you will find redemption.” Basil searched his friends face desperately but he could see no redemption there, only the curl of contempt. “I shall see myself out.”

For a moment Basil thought Dorian might stop him but the boy merely turned back to the painting and Hallward scurried from the room. The sound of Dorian’s quiet sobs followed him down the stairs and Basil thought that perhaps he would hear that sound for as long as he lived.

***

Dorian did not hear from Basil again. And a crimson trickle of blood that had crept one day from the corner of the rotten painting’s mouth told him all he needed to know about why he did not.


End file.
